


Fix You

by queenofkadara



Series: The Griffon and the Halla: Blackwall & Arya Lavellan [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adjustment to the Inquisitor's arm amputation, Angst, Angst and Feels and Smut, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Trespasser, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 00:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: It was never going to be easy for Arya Lavellan to adjust to life without her arm. But Blackwall didn’t realize that Arya losing a limb would feel so much like he was losing his lovely Dalish wife.***************In a nutshell: Blackwall helps Arya adjust to life after she loses her left arm. Explicit smut in Chapter 4.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this fic because I thought it would be interesting to explore how a couple copes with an unexpected limb amputation, and the way it can affect their relationship. I did my best to research before writing this, but please note that I'm neither an archer nor an amputee; so if there is anything that is grossly inaccurate, please feel free to [message me on Tumblr and let me know.](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The resources I used will be listed at the end of Chapter 4.

Tears come streaming down your face  
When you lose something you cannot replace  
And tears come streaming down your face… 

Lights will guide you home  
And ignite your bones  
And I will try to fix you

[“Fix You” by Coldplay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4V3Mo61fJM)

*********************

A dull cramping pain reaches through Blackwall’s fingers.

He loosens the anxious fist he’s unknowingly formed and forces himself to take a slow, deep breath, but he doesn’t break his gaze from the eluvian. The Inquisitor has been gone for eighteen minutes now - almost nineteen - and he forces himself not to imagine all the ways she could be hurt in such an interminable length of time. 

He glares at the eluvian’s inert facade. Its kaleidoscopic surface went dark the moment she stepped through it; otherwise he would have been at her heels, no more than a step behind. 

_Must be an elf thing that closed it,_ he thinks idly. Idle thoughts are good: they’re neutral and bland, and they distract him from the horrors of his morbid imagination. Idle thoughts pull him away from the idea of her facing a contingent of qunari on her own. Or another eight-foot-tall saarebas that they didn’t know about. Or-

“You don’t think Solas has... done something, do you?” Dorian’s voice is sharp with anxiety, and Blackwall shoots him a glare. The Tevinter mage is pacing in front of the mirror, his nervous steps a sharp juxtaposition with Blackwall’s utter stillness. 

“It’s all right,” Cole says soothingly. He looks both sadder and more hopeful than usual. “Sorrowful, sorry, but safe. A wolf’s jaws hound his heels, but his heart isn’t wholly hardened. She won’t be harmed.” He turns his pale-eyed gaze to Blackwall’s face. 

Blackwall gives a tight nod, but he keeps his gaze on the eluvian. Cole might have an uncanny knack for knowing things he couldn’t possibly know, but Blackwall won’t feel calm until Arya steps back through the infernal mirror. 

Eons later, when Blackwall is sure that Dorian’s heels are going to wear a furrow into the ground, the eluvian comes to life with a burst of light and colour. Blackwall pulls his sword from its sheath and strides to the mirror’s side, his heart hammering an anxious beat in his ears. 

Arya pushes her way through the glass and collapses to her knees, and he’s instantly on the ground beside her, his sword forgotten as he runs his hands over her arms, her shoulders, her neck, searching for injuries, making sure she’s all in one piece. “Are you all right?” he rasps.

She lifts her face to meet his gaze, and he recoils slightly in surprise: she’s grinning. 

Her amethyst eyes are overbright, and she lets out a breathy little laugh. “Fucking Solas,” she says. Then she laughs again and starts to push herself to her feet.

He grasps her left hand and helps her rise, then belatedly notices that her palm isn’t pulsing with that sickening green light anymore. A leap of hope leaves him breathless for a moment. “Your hand,” he says. “It’s - is it fixed? Solas fixed it?”

“Let me see,” Dorian snaps. He hurries over and takes her hand, but her eyes are on Blackwall’s face. 

“He’s Fen’Harel,” she says. 

Blackwall frowns. “What?” 

“Solas is Fen’Harel,” she says loudly, as though he’s being obtuse. “The Dread Wolf, the trickster god - no, not a trickster. The rebel god. The big bad rebel wolf.” She breaks into laughter again, and this time she sounds distinctly hysterical. 

Suddenly Cole pipes in. “It’s gone,” he says softly. 

Blackwall turns to him, his frustration deepening by the second. “Arya’s mark, you mean? She’s better now?” This is all he cares about, it’s all that matters; is she cured or not? Is her bloody hand still killing her or not?

“Cole is right - the mark and its magic are gone,” Dorian confirms. “But-”

Arya pulls her left hand from the mage’s grasp and cradles it close to her chest. “Come on,” she says. “We’ve got to get back. Leliana needs to know. They all need to… Andruil’s tit, they’re going to laugh when they find out. Or maybe they won’t.” She giggles, sounding slightly punch-drunk, then sets off in the direction that they came.

Her steps are weaving slightly as though she’s tipsy, and Blackwall’s momentary relief is swiftly subsumed by worry. He places a solicitous hand at the small of her back, his other hand reaching out to support her left arm, but she defensively pulls her arm away from him. 

“Arya,” he says tensely. “What’s the matter? Does it hurt?” 

She smiles vacantly at him. “Can you believe it? Solas, the Dread Wolf. We had a wolf in our midst all this time, and we didn’t even know. A wolf in elf’s clothing.” She laughs again, a bright and brittle sound, then hisses and clutches her arm. 

His anxiety ratchets higher, and he turns to Dorian in desperation. “Can’t you do something?” he asks.

Dorian’s face is a picture of anxious apology. “I don’t think I can. Her hand is… There’s no magical signature anymore, but it’s just… off. I don’t…”

“Let’s get back,” Arya interrupts, and the men fall into step beside her as she strides along the path in a haphazard manner. “Varric will have a field day with this. It’s the best story I’ve ever heard. How did we not know?” She suddenly stops, forcing Cole to bump into her, and her wide violet eyes are on Blackwall’s face again. 

“How did _I_ not know?” she demands. “All that time - he came with us everywhere. He was so fucking knowledgeable. Always with an answer about every fucking thing. How could I not have known? So stupid, thinking he was our friend. I…” 

Blackwall cups her face as she trails off. “You’re not stupid,” he says firmly. “But you’re hurt, and you need help.” Then he frowns as he realizes she’s not looking at him anymore; her eyes are fixed on the ground. 

He follows her gaze down to find a faint golden glitter, and the bottom falls out of his stomach.

A gold ring lies on the ground: the wedding ring Blackwall gave her, shaped like a halla’s horns.

It’s attached to a finger. Arya’s finger, which has fallen off. 

A fuzzy kind of silence fills his ears as he stares at the finger on the ground. Arya slowly bends down and reaches for the ring with a trembling hand. As she touches the glittering band of gold, the flesh of her fallen finger crumbles into ash.

A shiver of horror runs down his spine, and his eyes snap back to her wounded left hand. Sure enough, the skin of her fingers is cracking like a dried riverbed, wisps of flesh crumbling and trickling away like burnt-out coal. 

She lifts the golden ring and rises to her feet, and in the time it takes for her eyes to land on his face, her first two fingers crumble and drift apart. 

He stares at her in stupid, breathless shock as she holds the ring out to him. “Hang on to this for me?” she says. “I might be a few fingers short.” A sick sort of smile lifts her lips, then she falls to her knees. 

Blackwall ignores the bile rising in his throat as he sweeps her into his arms. Her swiftly dissipating left arm is still tucked against her chest, her thumb now gone, the knuckles flaking away as though they were made of nothing more substantial than sand.

“Damn it,” Dorian hisses. “We need to move. _Quickly._ ” 

But Blackwall is frozen. Her feverish eyes are glued to his face, empty and unfocused, and he can’t look away. 

She smiles once more. “I’m going to fucking murder him,” she mumbles, then her eyes roll back in a dead faint. 

“It’s gone,” Cole repeats in a calm and tragic voice, and suddenly Blackwall is running, clutching Arya’s unconscious body close as he sprints for the eluvian that will take them back to Halamshiral. He hears Dorian’s panicked breaths to his left, Cole’s soft and rapid tread to his right, his own harsh breathing in his ears, but none of it matters. 

All that matters is what he can’t hear: Arya’s voice, the voice he loves the most, and the one that’s fallen silent for now. 

********************

Her arm disintegrates completely before they make it back to Halamshiral. She’s left with a perfectly clean stump without even a scar. It’s as though her left forearm never existed.

When Arya wakes in the Winter Palace, she can’t bear to look at it. 

She turns her face away from the missing arm, her eyes squeezed shut. Her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks. “At least he didn’t leave me bleeding all over the place. I guess that’s something.” She opens her eyes and smiles, and Blackwall’s heart quails at the tears shining in her eyes. “I’m still going to kill him, though.” 

Blackwall strokes her right palm soothingly with his thumbs. “Does it hurt?” he asks. Celene’s finest mage healers have been in and out all night, applying unguents and bandages and whispering spells and infusing her with various potions. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, but he can’t help but ask.

She shrugs, and a tear spills down her face to soak into her pillow. “No,” she says. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just… gone.”

Her words are a mirroring of Cole’s. He swallows his own distress and squeezes her hand encouragingly. “We’ll go back to Skyhold right away,” he assures her. “You’ve been through enough-”

“No, we can’t go yet,” she interrupts. “I need to speak to Leliana. She needs to know what Solas is planning. And the bloody Exalted Council - there’s no way they’re shutting us down now, not after this.” She makes as though to push herself up from the bed - with her missing left arm. 

Her face goes blank with dismay at the ineffectual gesture. Blackwall’s chest aches with sympathy as her jaw clenches, then she takes her right hand from him and pushes herself into a sitting position. 

Her eyes move around the room until they land on her formal uniform, hung neatly on the door of the armoire. “I need to change,” she says. She rises to her feet and takes two purposeful steps, then stumbles slightly to the right. 

He’s at her side in less than a second, one hand on her back and the other grasping her right hand, but her face is creased with anger and not with pain. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” she curses, then barks out a bitter laugh. “Fucking Solas.” She rights herself, then continues walking toward the armoire at a more careful pace. 

“What-” he starts to ask, but she interrupts impatiently. “Can’t balance properly,” she snaps. “Bloody missing arm. It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” With her right hand she pulls off her filthy shirt, then unbuttons her pants and awkwardly pushes them off, all the while averting her gaze from her left arm.

She takes the formal coat down from its hanger, and Blackwall takes a step forward. “Arya, let me-” 

She cuts him off again. “No, I’ll do it myself.” She tosses the coat onto a nearby chair and takes down the pants, but almost falls over while trying to pull on the left leg, and he catches her before she can hit the ground. 

She grits her teeth as she buttons her pants one-handed. A tear rolls down her face as she laboriously pulls the formal coat over the stump of her arm; one of the castle staff has already pinned the arm of her coat at the elbow. 

Blackwall watches in painful silence as Arya shuffles the coat on slowly, then does up the gilded buttons one by one. Her fingers slip at times, unaccustomed to doing their job without the help of their left-sided analogues, and she’s breathing hard by the time the final button is fastened. 

She finally meets his eyes. “What? Are you going to just stare at me?” she demands. 

“No, my lady,” he says automatically, but in truth, he can’t look away. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion and her amethyst eyes are hot with rage, but he can’t stop staring. She’s got dark circles of fatigue under her eyes, and her posture is slumped with strain, but she’s standing on her own two feet and her tongue is as sharp as ever. Arm or no arm, she’s his Arya Lavellan, bolshy and lively and _alive_ , and she’s the finest thing he’s ever seen. 

He reaches out and pulls her against his chest. Her survival of this whole ordeal is a fucking miracle, and he’s so damn relieved. “I love you,” he blurts. 

Her anger abruptly crumples, and she buries her face in his chest. He clutches her tightly, one hand stroking the back of her neck as she shakes silently against him. She clenches her right hand in his shirt, hot tears soaking through the fabric, and he breathes deep and slow to hide his own dismay. He’s sure she doesn’t mean it when she rails about wanting to murder Solas, but in this moment, he would gladly end the traitorous mage’s life if it would end her suffering.

A long, agonizing moment later, she pulls away and wipes her face roughly. “I have to go talk to the others. They need to know about Solas.” She doesn’t quite meet his eye as she slides from his arms. She inhales deeply to regain her composure, then takes a few steps toward the door before suddenly stopping. 

She glares intently at her left arm, and Blackwall gazes at her with fresh concern. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t... It felt for a second like my hand was still there,” she says. She pauses for a moment, looking distinctly uneasy, then shakes her head and continues toward the door. 

Blackwall hurries after her, his anxiety sharpening again as he watches her gait. The sway of her slender hips is the same as always, but she weaves very slightly as she strides down the hall, her balance shifting slightly as she tries to accommodate for the missing weight of her arm. 

He catches up to her and places a supportive hand in the middle of her back. “Arya, slow down. The Council knows you’ve been injured. It’s all right to take a moment.” 

She frowns and pulls away from his hand, stumbling slightly as she does so. “My murderous glowing hand hasn’t stopped them from breathing down my neck the whole time we were here,” she retorts. “And Thom, _please,_ stop hovering. I’m not made of glass. I’m not going to break.” 

Her use of his given name is a tiny punishment, and he bows his head slightly at the rebuke. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he says. With an effort of will, he drops his hands to his sides as he follows her down the hall. 

They reach the private office where she’s been meeting with Cullen and Josephine and Leliana during their time in Halamshiral. She stops at the door and looks up at him. “I’ll see you later?”

Her words are phrased as a question, but her brusque tone is a clear dismissal, and Blackwall knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s dealing with this new upheaval the same way she deals with any Inquisition-related crisis: she’s shunting aside her feelings in favour of a healthy dose of pragmatism and a pinch of snark. It’s a productive outlook most of the time. 

But this time is different; this time is personal. She just lost her arm, and Blackwall almost lost his wife, and he’s not sure her usual brusque approach will work this time.

But Arya is the Inquisitor, and following her is his way. He swallows hard, then nods. “Yes, Your Worship. But before I go…” He fishes around in his pocket, then takes her right hand.

From his pocket he pulls her golden ring. He carefully slides it onto the ring finger of her right hand. “I kept it safe,” he says quietly. 

He looks up and meets her eyes, and his heart thumps in relief at tenderness softening her face. She squeezes his hand tightly. “Thank you,” she whispers, then tilts her chin up for a kiss. 

He happily complies, savouring the warmth of her palm and the softness of her mouth. She pulls away with a wan little smile and disappears into the office, and Blackwall makes his way back to their guest suite. Arya might be missing half an arm, but she holds his heart in the hand that remains. She’ll need time to adjust to this change, and he’ll be at her side for as long as it takes.


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s not working yet. Usually it works faster than this. Why isn’t it doing anything?” Arya demands. She paces around their bedroom in Skyhold like a caged wolf, her fingers kneading the stump of her left arm and her face twisted in discomfort. 

Blackwall watches as she strides from the desk to the couch and back again. “It’s been about ten minutes, love,” he says gently. “It’ll take a little more time.”

She shoots him an incredulous look. “Only ten minutes? Are you sure?” 

He nods, and she wilts with exasperation as she walks toward him. “I swear I took that damned potion more than ten minutes ago…”

He reaches out and squeezes her hip before she can stride toward the desk again. “Come sit here by me,” he says. He pats the couch beside him.

She plops down beside him bad-temperedly. He gently peels her fingers away from her left arm, then cradles the missing limb in his hands and firmly smoothes his thumbs along her flesh. 

Arya heaves a heavy sigh and closes her eyes as his palms slide along the length of her residual arm. He rubs his fingers carefully over the end of her stump, then back up to the smooth golden skin of her shoulder. With every pass of his hands, every circular caress of his thumbs, the tension leaves her body a little bit more.

The ghost of her missing hand began to haunt her in earnest during their ride back to Skyhold a few weeks ago. It started with that odd sensation of the hand being there even though it wasn’t: like it was extant but inert, a glaring presence made obvious by its absence. 

Then the pins and needles began. 

She described it as a tingling, and it wasn’t all the time. She insisted it wasn’t painful; it was just deeply _uncomfortable_ , like a digging or an itching that lived in the center of her stump where no amount of scratching could reach. 

Then the intense prickling sensation began to keep her up at night. 

Arya has barely slept these past weeks, and Blackwall hasn’t either. His body never lost the impulse to guard her even when unconscious, and every time her prickling arm woke her up, he instinctively woke up as well.

During the day, her arm pulled her focus, and her divided attention rendered her irritable and short - and Blackwall gallantly took the brunt of her frustration. She would snap at him, and he would soften her irritation with a soothing stroke of his hand. She would fling a fiddly-buttoned shirt on the floor in frustration, and he would silently hang it back in the closet. 

It took three weeks before the healers hit upon the right combination of remedies to ease her discomfort: a potion of embrium and deep mushroom three times a day, and a careful regime of massage for the stump of her arm. On the night that the healers finally hit upon the embrium and mushroom infusion, Blackwall was so grateful that he almost cried. 

Now, as Arya waits for the potion to take effect, Blackwall carefully follows the massage regime and watches the frustration fleeing his lover’s face. As her shoulders lose their tension, so do his own; the tightness fades from the corners of her eyes, and he can feel his jaw relaxing.

She sighs again, this time with contentment, then snuggles into his side. “It’s working now,” she murmurs. She nuzzles his neck gently, then kisses his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Your Worship,” he replies. She smiles at his gently teasing tone, then shuffles onto her knees and leans in for a proper kiss.

A hint of hope flickers in his belly as she presses her lips to his. Her hand is warm as it cradles his neck, and he happily soaks in her heat. Blackwall understands her ire; she’s cheerfully independent at the best of times and snappishly impatient at the worst, and the aggravation of her missing arm only fuels her natural fire. But he would be lying if he said the past three weeks haven’t been a certain kind of hell. 

Tonight, however, her ire has melted away. Her kiss is as sweet as it ever was, and Blackwall is relieved. 

He slides his hand along the curve of her waist, his fingers tracing carefully over the dip in her spine. But when he cups her bottom to pull her closer, she breaks the kiss. 

“Blackwall, I… I’m quite tired,” she says. Her fingers stroke his beard, but she won’t meet his eye. “The potion and all… Do you mind…?”

He swallows the now-familiar little pang of hurt and shakes his head. “Not at all, my lady,” he says. “Get your rest while it’s working.” 

She smiles slightly, then slides off the couch and climbs into bed. Blackwall solicitously tucks the blankets around her, then drops a chaste kiss on her pixie-short hair. “I’ll be at the tavern if you need me,” he says. 

“Okay,” she murmurs, and he blows out the bedside candle before reluctantly leaving their quarters. 

As he crosses the courtyard to meet Bull and the Chargers, he tries to ignore the empty feeling in his chest. He can take Arya’s anger and her wrath; he can deflect her temper like his shield deflects a sword. 

What he can’t deflect is his own slow-growing sense of rejection. 

_You’re being stupid,_ he reminds himself. Arya loves him, and he knows it. Her injury has taken a toll, and he understands why she’s not in the mood. But his sensible inner voice doesn’t stop his sorrowed heart from feeling a little emptier with every passing day. 

The last time they moved together was in Halamshiral. She’s gently rebuffed him ever since.

It’s not the sex per se that he misses, though he misses that as well - _Maker’s bloody balls,_ he misses that as well. It’s the closeness that accompanies their trysts. He’s still not quite sure how it happened, but at some point over the course of the past few weeks, they’ve taken to sleeping on opposite sides of the bed. 

Blackwall _wants_ to hold her close at night like he usually does. He’s desperate for the feel of skin-to-skin as she walks the Fade in her dreams. He reminisces about her leg slung across his waist, her fingers twined in his beard and her head tucked under his chin, and a painful lump of longing swells in his throat.

The tavern comes into view as he broods. What came first, he wonders? Did she shy away from him, or did he pull away from her? Is she withdrawing from him, or is he avoiding her? 

Either way, the result is the same: the easy constancy of their touch has been shattered, and he’s not quite sure how to close this breach. 

He heaves a sigh at the threshold of the tavern, then tries to dredge up some optimism as he steps inside. Things are better already with the potions and the massage. They can only get better from here. He has to believe that. 

Arya is the flame that heats his blood. She’s the song that lulls him to sleep at night and the light that breaks across his eyelids every morning. They’ve ploughed through demon-infested mansions and Darkspawn tunnels, through enigmatic eluvians and spider-strewn sewers, and he’s protected her every step of the way.

Blackwall is her shield and her shelter. If protection from his sadness is what she needs, then that’s what he’ll provide. 

**************************

Arya stands in the courtyard, her eyes on the practicing archers and her right arm wrapped around her middle. 

Blackwall approaches her slowly, then leans on the enclosure of the sparring ring. He watches the soldiers going through their defensive drills for a moment before speaking. “You seem better this week,” he remarks. “Your arm isn’t bothering you as much, is it?” He’s fluent in the language of her discomfort, and her body has been much less tense in the past few days.

She shakes her head. “No. It’s fine now. No pins and needles at all.”

He raises his brows. “None at all?” 

She shakes her head again, then shoots him a sidelong glance. “I had a strange dream a few nights ago.” 

He frowns slightly, unsure where she’s going with this. Her smirk grows slightly, but the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and Blackwall can’t tell whether she’s amused or sarcastic or... nothing at all. 

“I dreamt I was in the Frostback Basin,” she continues. “I was making soup in one of the treehouses, you know, the ones Harding hates so much. And then something was licking my missing arm. A wolf.” Her smiles grows. “A wolf was licking my arm.” 

Blackwall stares at her in consternation. Then something clicks in his brain, and his stare becomes a gape. “Oh. _Oh._ It was…? Wait.” He swells to his full height and glares protectively down at her. “Should I be angry about this?” he demands.

Her smile finally reaches her eyes, and she laughs. “I honestly don’t know. But when I woke up, my arm felt fine. Well, aside from the fact that it’s still gone. But it feels like… nothing. No discomfort.” She shrugs. 

He deflates as he gazes down at her. “That’s good then. Right? That’s good!” He caresses her neck gently, his callused warrior’s fingers sweeping her skin in an encouraging stroke. 

She nods. “Yes. It’s much more comfortable.” She turns her gaze back to the archers. “I guess it’s one thing I can thank Solas for before I kill him.” 

Blackwall smiles uncertainly, but her expression has fallen flat again, and he can’t tell if she’s serious or not. She’s gone back to watching the archers, and as the minutes tick silently by, he watches with growing pity as her face slowly morphs into a heartbreaking expression of longing. 

He nervously licks his lips. “Sure you don’t want to learn the sword and shield?” he offers for the umpteenth time. “A shield strapped to your left upper arm - we could adjust easily for that.”

She shakes her head. “I told you, no. I was terrible with a dagger. I’ll be even worse with a sword.” 

“You weren’t terrible-” he starts to say, but she silences him with a sharp look. “I was not good,” she says. “Blades aren’t for me.” She returns her wistful gaze to the archers. 

They stand quietly for a moment longer before he dares to speak again. “The crossbow prosthetic that Bianca made for you seems to work well.” 

“Yes,” she agrees, and her tone is utterly flat. 

Blackwall finally sighs and gently pulls her around to face him. “Arya, what’s the matter? I’ve seen you in action with the crossbow. You were using it perfectly in less than a week. You don’t miss a shot. What’s the problem?” 

She wrests her arm from his grip. “It’s not me,” she snaps. “It’s the crossbow, not me.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“It’s the crossbow doing all the work,” she says impatiently. “I’m not doing anything. Cock, load, and the machine does the rest. It’s not… I’m an archer. I _was_ an archer,” she amends. “I was fast, Blackwall. And I was good at it. Now I’m just a woman who points and shoots. I carry around a marvel of dwarven engineering, and all I do is point and shoot.” 

The volume of her voice is steadily increasing, and Blackwall runs his palm along her back to try and soothe her, but he doesn’t quite understand her ire. It’s not like shooting a crossbow is an unskilled act. “An untrained soldier can do a lot of harm with a crossbow if they’re not properly trained,” he reasons. “You picked it up so quickly. Even Varric said-”

“I know what Varric said,” she snaps, and Blackwall takes an involuntary step away from her. 

She sighs, her shoulders deflating as her anger leaves her in the wake of her breath. “Sorry,” she mutters. “It’s just… what am I even doing? I barely do anything as the Inquisitor now. Fucking Solas has us chasing our tails like idiots. I don’t…” She trails off and runs a hand through her sleek short hair, then turns to him. “Let’s have a drink. What do you say?” 

Blackwall eyes her cautiously, then follows her toward the tavern as she sets off without awaiting his response. She’s taken to visiting the tavern daily in the past couple weeks, and he desperately wants to express his concern, but he doesn’t seem able to say anything these days without inciting a lashing from her tongue. 

She steps into the tavern, and her smile is as scintillating as usual. She greets everyone by name, and she sings along with the new Orlesian bard during her first glass of wine. She drags Krem and Grim into a darts competition during her second, and she’s giggling uncontrollably at Bull’s every salacious joke by her third.

Blackwall matches her drink for drink. He tries to smile and he tries to laugh, but all he can see is the hardness in her amethyst eyes, and all he can hear is the brittle tone in her tinkling laugh. 

By her fifth drink, she’s taken to telling stories to anyone who will listen. She talks about the first dragon they slayed, and Bull is only too happy to supplement her tale with gory details. She talks about the first time she met Blackwall in the Hinterlands, and he blushes and genuinely laughs at this. 

Then she talks about the first time she tried to use her father’s bow when she was six years old. “Couldn’t even lift the thing. It was bigger than me,” she laughs. She takes a swig from her half-empty glass. “He made me a little bow of my own a week later. I’ve been an archer ever since. Well, I was.” 

Her smile slips, and Blackwall’s smile fades as well as her mood begins to blacken. She suddenly turns to him, and her beautiful eyes are hard as marble. “I was one of the finest archers in my clan,” she declares. “Never failed to hit a single hart. Sometimes we had little competitions to entertain ourselves. I was almost the best - damned Ithirel was the only one who ever bested me. I would have been the best if it wasn’t for all of this.” She waves her stump vaguely at the tavern and almost falls off her stool. 

Blackwall catches her instantly and sets her right. They’re alone in the corner now, and he’s glad; her mood has precipitously slid from merry to morose. He knows she’s drunk, and he knows he shouldn’t take her words to heart, but they hurt him nonetheless.

He tries to bite his tongue, but he can’t help himself. “Would you rather be with your clan, then?” he asks. “You’d rather none of this happened?” 

She shoots him an incredulous look. “It would have been better for the whole world if none of this had happened. Too bad Solas ever woke up from his fucking uthenera.” She laughs, but the sound is harsh and grating on his skin. 

She’s not wrong, but the injured part of his heart can’t let it go. “If this had never happened, we wouldn’t have met. Is that what you’d prefer?” 

She frowns blearily at him. “What? What does this have to do with us?” 

Her response isn’t an answer, and it does nothing to soothe him. Suddenly a new question is jangling at the back of his mind, and he’s sober enough to realize that he can’t ask it, but it seems to summarize the problem that’s picking away at the inside of his chest. 

_Would you rather have me or your arm?_ he wonders. It shouldn’t come down to this, and it’s an utterly unfair simplification, but it feels like Blackwall lost his wife when she lost her arm, and he’s desperate to get her back. 

She’s still staring at him in confusion. He gazes back at her in agony until she smiles crookedly. “Let’s have another drink,” she declares. 

As he studies her flushed cheeks, he realizes with a sharp jolt of guilt that he should never have let her crawl this far into the bottle. She’s been pulling away from everyone over the past few weeks, withdrawing from her duties to hide in the tavern instead, and Blackwall is so used to following the Inquisitor’s lead and trusting her judgment that he missed his cue to question her in this.

He rises from the bench. He’s had enough of drinking and hiding. “Let’s go upstairs and talk,” he says firmly, and takes her hand. 

She sighs loudly, but she rises from the bench and allows him to subtly help her walk out of the tavern. She’s calibrated her balance to accommodate her missing arm over the past two months, but her graceful gait reverts to a stumbling saunter when she’s drunk. 

She stares at the practicing archers as they pass through the courtyard. “So unfair,” she mutters. “I could have outshot them all. I used to, remember? Do you remember how good I was?” 

“I do, my lady,” he says softly, but he’s thinking of more than her archer’s arm. He thinks of the sinuous slink of her hips as she strips off her clothes and the teasing twirl of her tongue across the tip of his cock. He remembers the fierceness of her fingers in his hair and the melody of her cries when he takes her deep, and suddenly he misses her so badly that he could cry. 

He’s silent as he helps her through the Great Hall and up to their bedroom. She sits heavily on the couch, and Blackwall crouches at her feet and reaches for her boots. “I’ll just-”

She pulls her legs away. “I can do it,” she snaps, her anger flaring again. “Can’t put the fucking boots on myself, but I can take them off.” She pulls roughly at the laces.

He rises to his feet and turns away. He breathes deeply through his nose to quell the stinging in his eyes. He listens as her boots hit the floor, one thump after the other, then turns around to face her. 

Her elbow rests on her knees and her face is hidden in her hand, and his heart aches anew at how exhausted she looks. Then she raises her face and glares at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she demands. 

“Like what?” he says defensively. 

“Like you’re the injured one,” she yells. “You’re not the one who’s missing a fucking arm. You’re not the useless elf who can’t tie her own boots or cut up her own meat or wash her hair without it taking three times longer than it should!” 

She chokes on a sob, and Blackwall slowly kneels at her feet as she continues to rant. “I can’t shoot an arrow to save my life. I barely do anything for the Inquisition anymore. Cassandra and Cullen are doing everything of any use. I’m hardly even a figurehead. I’m just… an invalid.” 

“That’s not true,” he retorts. He slides his palms around her calves and watches in despair as the tears streak down her face. 

“Yes it is!” she yells. “I sit around this place with half a bloody arm and nothing to do, and you’re stuck helping to tie my boots and button up half my shirts because I can’t bloody do it myself. You didn’t sign up for this,” she screams. “I didn’t want this. You can’t possibly want this. Why-” 

“Arya,” he interrupts. He sits beside her and takes her hand. “You’re not an invalid. You’re the same woman you’ve always been.”

“How can you say that?” she shouts. “I’m not an archer anymore. Being Dalish doesn’t mean anything anymore - everything we thought we knew was wrong. I’m just… nothing. I’m nobody.” Her tears finally flood out her words, and she buries her face in her hand.

He pulls her close against his chest, his heart throbbing in time with her wracking sobs. _You’re everything,_ he thinks. The Inquisition might be Leliana’s peacekeeping force now, but Arya is still the Inquisitor. She’s the one who knew Solas best, and the one with the best chance of talking the ancient elf around. But she’s so much more than just the Inquisitor. 

Arya is the sun that lights his days and the stars that guide him through the night. She’s the fighter he follows through spirit-haunted forests and the lover who bucks beneath him in his bed. She’s never been just an archer to him; she’s always been so much more than the Inquisitor. She trusted him when he didn’t deserve it, and her faith gave him hope. She loved him despite his blackened past, and she inspired him to be more than just a brutish pair of hands. 

During their three years together, Arya has never led him wrong. Now, as he holds her wine-scented body close, he realizes the truth: it’s _his_ turn to guide the Inquisitor.

And Blackwall is determined to do it right.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Blackwall heads straight for the undercroft to speak to Harritt. 

Twenty minutes later, he leaves the undercroft. There’s a spring in his step, and it carries him to the courtyard where he finds Sera and Dagna eating stale cookies under a tree. 

After a quick word and a bite of cookie, he returns to the Great Hall and starts to eat a bowl of porridge. He watches as Sera traipses through the Great Hall and into the Inquisitor’s private quarters, which have been conveniently left unlocked.

A short time later, Sera drags Arya into the main hall. Her crossbow prosthetic is affixed to her arm and a disgruntled expression is plastered on her face. 

Sera shoves the Inquisitor down beside Blackwall. “Sit here, Your Gracious Ladybits. Friends get food for friends, yeh? I’ll try to make sure it’s not moldy. No promises though!” She runs off to the kitchens. 

Blackwall raises his eyebrows innocently as Arya runs her fingers through her short auburn hair. “Early morning?”

“Some Red Jenny thing,” Arya grunts. “Don’t know why she needs me. They’ve been doing fine without me.” 

_They’ll do better with you,_ he thinks. He’s not the only one who’s suffered without her leadership and her company. But he holds his tongue and sips his coffee; actions will speak louder than words in this.

Arya sits in dour silence until Sera returns with a plate of eggs and a half-eaten piece of toast. “Breakfast of champions, innit? Or for Fancy Ladybosses or whatever.” She plops the plate in front of Arya, then shoves her shoulder impatiently. “Come on, Herald, eat up! Poncy arses to poke out there! Those breeches aren’t going to steal themselves, are they?” She clambers onto the table to sit cross-legged right beside Arya’s breakfast. 

Arya turns to Blackwall with a doleful stare. “Save me.”

_I will,_ he promises silently. He cradles her neck in one big palm and kisses her forehead. “Look after Sera out there. I’ll see you later.” He rises from the table and begins to walk away.

“In a few days, more like!” Sera calls after him. “And the only ones who’ll need looking after are the big people that we’ll topple from their fancy castles!” 

A dart of apprehension prods his belly at the thought of being separated from Arya for more than a day, but he forces himself to ignore it and waves casually over his shoulder. He’s been constantly at her side since their return from Halamshiral, but his pandering has become a poison. She doesn’t need her left arm to stand on her own two feet, and she’ll remember this all the faster without his coddling hands holding her up. 

He sleeps on his old pallet in the stables during the two nights that Arya is gone; it doesn’t feel right to sleep in the Inquisitor’s bed without her. When she returns on the third day, he eagerly greets her and Sera at the gates. 

Her skin is more golden and her cheeks more rosy than they’ve been in months. Her smile is small but genuine, and he beams helplessly at how healthy she looks. “You stuck it to some fancy nobles, I take it?” he says. 

Sera pipes up before Arya can speak. “Some people got paid, some people got poked, and we had some fun while doing it. That’s all you need to know.” The younger elf taps her nose cheekily and elbows Arya in the ribs. “Don’t leave us for too long again, Herald. I like having someone to shoot the shit with. In more ways than one!” She cackles raucously, then scampers away. 

Arya continues to smile at him, and he takes a step closer, drawn inexorably into her warmth like a moth to a flame. “You seem happy,” he says. An inane comment, perhaps, but her happiness is not something he’s been able to take for granted. 

She shrugs and drops her eyes, but her smile remains. “Maybe,” she admits. “It was nice to feel… I don’t know. Useful.” 

He lifts her chin with a gentle finger and gazes seriously into her amethyst eyes. “You’re more than just an arm with a bow, my lady,” he tells her. “Archery was the least of your virtues.” 

She drops her eyes again and huffs with disbelief. “Come on, let’s go for a drink.” She takes his hand and starts to lead him to the tavern.

He gently tightens his grip on her hand. “Before we do that, I think Charter could use your help. She and Harding have hit a wall with tracking Solas’s people.” 

Arya keeps her eyes on the ground as Blackwall presses his point. “They need someone who might be able to predict his movements. Someone who could call Solas a friend.” She snorts with disgust, but he gazes at her until she finally meets his eyes. “They could also use someone who can predict what the Dalish might do,” he says quietly. 

She nibbles her lower lip, and Blackwall takes another small step closer. “You never stopped being the Inquisitor,” he murmurs. “You lost your arm, not your mind.” _And I won’t let this steal your spirit,_ he thinks fiercely. She’s his Arya, sharp-tongued and sharp of eye, lively and cheeky and bold, and he won’t allow her to crumble away like her erstwhile arm. 

She’s silent for a long time before speaking. “I’m only one Dalish,” she mutters. “I can’t tell you what any of the other clans will do.”

“They all thought one Dalish couldn’t take down Corypheus or close the Breach either,” he retorts. “You’ve done big things already, my lady. You can do this.”

She worries at her lower lip for a moment longer before releasing his hand. “Fine,” she says, then raises a threatening finger at him. “But you owe me a drink.” 

Her expression is forbidding, but Blackwall doesn’t mind. He’s ecstatic, in fact. But he hides his grin and bows his head instead. “Your Worship,” he says. 

She rolls her eyes and heads toward the rookery to meet Leliana’s spymaster, and Blackwall finally allows himself to smile. He heads to the tavern to buy a bottle of Arya’s favourite Nevarran wine with a clear and happy conscience. 

She may not know it yet, but this drink will be the first good one she’s had in a long time. For the first time in months, a drink will be celebratory.

*********************

Weeks go by, and Arya gradually becomes herself again.

She spends more and more time in the rookery with Divine Victoria’s spies, and accordingly less time in the tavern. She goes off for days at a time with Sera, and her smile is broader each time they come home. Her sense of humour returns, and she only drinks a couple of times a week - the same frequency as before Halamshiral. 

As his lovely elven wife returns to herself, the shroud of anxiety over Blackwall’s heart unravels bit by bit until he feels almost as light as he did before. Only one issue remains - or two, depending on how he thinks about it. 

She still spends a few hours a week watching the archers practicing, her face painted with a heartwrenching look of longing. And he and Arya are still sleeping on opposite sides of the bed.

The two circumstances are not connected. Or at least, they shouldn’t be. But ever since that night in the tavern when she almost fell apart, Blackwall can’t help but feel that the dual losses of her arm and her affection are inexorably intertwined. He misses his Dalish wife, misses the easy press of her lips and the circle of her arms when she holds him close, and he’s convinced that Arya being an archer again is the only thing that will heal this rift.

That’s where Harritt comes in. 

One morning, Sera bounces into the stables while Blackwall is brushing the horses. “Hey Beardy!” she chirps. “Heraldywhatsit’s in the cold and clangy place with the clangmaster. He told Dagna to tell me to tell you the thingy is done.”

He spins toward her, the horses instantly forgotten in the wake of his excitement. “Harritt’s with Arya in the undercroft?”

She wrinkles her nose. “That’s what I said, innit?” 

He shoves the brush into Sera’s hands and runs out of the stables without another word. But before he gets very far, he spots Arya and Harritt in the courtyard facing a row of archery targets. 

His gaze falls on her left arm, and he sees what he was hoping for: a simple-looking prosthetic consisting of a strong metal rod tipped with a sturdy pincer grip. His heart leaps into his throat, filling his mouth with a potent dose of hope. 

He slows his pace as he approaches them and sidles up to Arya in a semblance of casualness as Harritt finishes explaining the prosthetic to her. “You can hold any bow in the grip,” he says. “Just fix ‘em in place with the strap and buckle. No extra torque, Your Worship. She’ll hold your bows like a charm.”

Arya blows out a breath and nods, then beams up at Blackwall. “An archery attachment,” she tells him. “Why didn’t I think of this?” 

He smiles and smoothes a strand of hair behind her ear. “May I watch, my lady?” 

Her face fades into seriousness as she nods. “Yes. But don’t expect too much. I might be awful.” 

Her face belies her words, however; it’s painted with a blazing hue of hope, a hope he was so worried she would lose, and he’s so relieved to see it that he almost kisses her right here and now. 

Now is not the time, however. Now is the time to see what she can do. “You won’t be awful,” he says firmly, then steps back to give her space. 

She shoots him a skeptical look, but the corners of her lips are curled with contentment, and he smiles back as she picks up her favoured dwarven fire-rune bow and fastens it into the prosthetic. 

She lifts a practice arrow from the quiver at her hip, then positions it with trembling fingers. She eyes her target, then pulls back the bowstring in one smooth movement. 

The arrow falls left and short of the target. 

Blackwall’s eyes snap to her face, but she doesn’t look disappointed at all; instead, the hope in her face is hardened with determination. 

She lifts another arrow and tries again, and her arrow falls short again, though a little more straight. 

She turns to face him, and he’s surprised but pleased to see a fierce little smile on her face. “It’s an adjustment,” she says excitedly. “I have to feel the tension in my arm instead of my hand.” She turns back to the target and pulls another arrow. “I’m going to get this right,” she says.

Her voice is assertive and bold, her posture straight and tall, and Blackwall’s chest is painful with pride as he watches her smoothly draw another arrow. 

Arya practices with her new prosthetic for the rest of the day, and Blackwall remains at her side. He dozes now and then, and he goes to the kitchens to bring her a meal at midday, and he marvels at her stamina as the day wears on: there’s sweat beaded on her brow and her arms tremble with exertion, but her eyes are narrowed with focus as her aim becomes more and more sure. 

Late that afternoon, when the sun has traversed the sky to throw shadows across the courtyard, he watches as Arya draws one more arrow. She exhales hard, takes a deep breath, and takes aim. 

Her arrow punches the heart of her target straight and true, and the breath is punched from his lungs as he admires her perfect shot. 

“Yes!” she squeals, and punches her victorious fist in the air. She unclamps the prosthetic from her arm and places it in the ground, then spins toward him with her face wreathed in the most beautiful smile. 

“I knew you could do it,” he tells her with pride. Then the breath leaves his lungs again as she runs toward him and leaps into his arms. 

Her right arm is around his neck and her legs are tight around his waist. She throws her head back with a peal of laughter, and the sound of her joy rings through him with the resonance of a Chantry bell. She’s secure and solid and _here,_ a clear and present weight in his arms, and he cradles her like the precious treasure that she is. 

He opens his mouth to tell her how much he missed her, but her lips seal his own before he can speak. Her mouth is warm and plump and inviting, her tongue insistent against his own, and he melts into her like iron ore in a forge’s flame. 

Too soon, much too soon, she pulls away and presses her forehead to his. Her fingers are in his hair and the end of her left arm is pressed to his neck, and a ripple of happiness shivers down his spine as she presses her lips to his cheekbone. 

“Why do I think you had something to do with this?” she whispers.

“Me? It was Harritt’s handiwork,” he protests, but she scoffs in amusement. “Don’t pretend, Blackwall. I know you were involved.” She smiles at him, but her eyes are soft and serious. “You’ve had a hand in everything good that’s happened over the past few months. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” 

He swallows hard and clutches her close. Her grip in his hair is tight, and her breath is warm as her words fan across his cheek. “I’ve been a cranky bitch, I know-”

He opens his mouth to automatically protest, but she shakes her head to silence him. “I have,” she insists. “I was angry. So fucking angry, and I took it out on you. I’m still mad about it all sometimes, but I… It wasn’t fair on you. I am sorry, Blackwall. And… I love you.” 

He closes his eyes and exhales with a cathartic burst of relief. He knew this all along, he _knew_ , but an insecure little part of his heart stopped believing it somewhere along the way. 

Her hand cups his cheek. “Hey,” she murmurs. “I love you. You know that, right?” 

He presses his cheek into her palm and nods silently. When the lump in his throat lessens, he opens his eyes to meet her steady gaze. 

“Come upstairs with me?” he pleads. 

Arya bites her lip, then firmly nods her head. “Yes,” she whispers.


	4. Chapter 4

The walk back to the Inquisitor’s quarters feels both long and short at once. Excitement begins to burn in Blackwall’s belly, even as a tremble of nerves chases his every step.

Arya’s fingers are clenched between his own, and in his furtive glances at her face, he can see the seriousness of her expression. The last few steps into their bedroom seem particularly momentous, and when Blackwall releases her hand to face her, he realizes what this feels like.

It feels like the first time. The excitement, the hope, the undeniable thread of fear as she raises her wide violet eyes to his face: he feels like an untouched youth about to lie with a lover for the first time, and he can see from the uncertainty of her posture that she feels the same. 

She runs her fingers through her hair and gives a little laugh. “I feel… strange,” she admits. 

He chuckles nervously. “As do I, my lady,” he says. He swallows hard, then admits the fear that’s been hounding him all this time. “I was afraid you didn’t want me anymore.” 

Her big elven eyes grow even bigger. “No!” she exclaims. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… with this stupid arm, I could barely put on my own trousers. How was I supposed to…” She trails off and awkwardly rubs her stump. “And then I was so uncomfortable all the time with the prickling. And you were helping me get dressed and washing my hair and all that, like some helpless old lady.” Her eyes are on the ground as she hunches her shoulders self-consciously. “It’s not sexy. I didn’t feel… sexy,” she mutters.

His chest aches with tenderness as he inspects his slender Dalish wife. He steps close and cradles her nape in his palm. “Arya, you’re sexy when you’re drunk on Dorian’s dragonthorn potion and covered in dirt,” he says bluntly. “I want you just as badly with only one arm as I did when you had them both.” 

She lifts her chin at his touch, but her arms remain clasped defensively across her middle. “But you didn’t… At night, you stopped…” She trails off, and her eyes dart toward the bed. 

His heart pounds painfully as he realizes what this means. He thought she didn’t want his touch, but she thought he didn’t want _her_. Her adjustment period might have put a gap in their bed, but miscommunication widened the gap into a chasm. It was all just a misunderstanding, and Blackwall is absolutely fucking delighted. 

He reaches out and pulls her against his chest. He takes her lips in a kiss, and her tiny whimper of need is more satisfying than an Orlesian symphony. 

He slides his fingers into her hair, then tugs her head back to expose the column of her neck, and her gasp floats across his cheekbone as he nuzzles the pointed tip of her ear. “I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he whispers. “You were right there every night, and I wanted to hold you, but I thought you didn’t want me to…” 

Her fingers clench against his left bicep. “I did,” she insists. “I thought _you_ didn’t. I thought… the missing arm, and you had to look after me…” 

“Arya, you could lose both your legs and I would still want you,” he tells her fiercely. “I mean it. An arm is just an arm. It’s nothing to me. _You’re_ what I want.” 

She hiccups, and he gently wipes the tears from her face. His kisses the salt of her cheekbone and the line of her jaw, and her throat trembles beneath his lips as they brush along the silken line of her neck. 

The collar of her shirt stops his questing lips, and he reluctantly lifts his face from her throat. He slides his palms along the slender curves of her waist, his cock already pulsing with anticipation as he imagines her bare and golden skin. “Let me show you how much I’ve missed you,” he begs.

She presses herself against him, and a ripple of desire fans through his limbs as her belly brushes his hardening groin. “I think you already are,” she breathes. 

Her fingers curl into his collar. The stump of her left arm is a comforting pressure against his chest. She’s warm and pliant in his arms, her thighs pressed to his and her plump lower lip simply begging for his kiss, but it’s not enough. 

Blackwall has waited on the sidelines for months. He worried while she hardened with rage, and he watched with pride as she softened and bloomed into life without her arm. He helped until he became a hindrance, and he stood back to watch her take the lead in her own life again. 

He lay in bed for countless nights, the blankets hot but his spirit cold without her heated skin to warm him. Now, as he regards her upturned face, the warmth in her glowing eyes is an unrestrained invitation, and the simple press of her body is not enough. 

He needs her silken skin beneath his roughened palms. He needs her weight across his hips and her fingers in his hair. He needs the confirmation of his name to spill from her lips as he strokes her into ecstasy, and he needs the warm unity of their melded sweat across his skin. 

Blackwall needs Arya to heat his blood and bring him to life, and a simple embrace is not enough. 

His fingers trace up along the buttons of her shirt until fabric becomes skin. He frames the delicate column of her throat in his fingers and savours the neediness of her shaky inhale. 

Carefully, reverently, he places a gentle kiss on her scarlet lips. “Let me show you,” he breathes. 

“Yes,” she blurts, and she presses her hips insistently against his body. 

His cock jerks against her midriff, and he inhales deeply for control. They have weeks and months to make up for, months of love that’s been mistakenly muted, and Blackwall refuses to rush the joy of this reunion.

He brushes one thumb across her luscious lower lip before taking a reluctant step back. “Take your clothes off for me,” he says. 

A slow smile lights her lovely face. “Ooh. Bossy, are we?” she teases. Mischief brightens her eyes, and Blackwall’s resolve starts to soften as he studies her expression. He desperately missed her humour and her levity, the foxiness of her teasing tone, and he’s sorely tempted to rip her clothes away himself. 

But there’s a reason he wants her to strip herself. His hands are itching to touch her, but he folds them behind his back and gives her a chiding glance. “Arya.” 

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “All right, all right.” Her hand moves toward her buttons, the stunted left arm moving instinctively along with the right, but her right-hand fingers pop the buttons with deft and skill, just as he knew they would. 

He watches intently as each button comes undone. Her body is revealed in golden glimpses, and his cock pounds in his trousers with every gilded scrap of skin he sees. She peels the shirt off of her left side, then shimmies her right shoulder until it drifts to the floor. 

His eyes fall eagerly on her breasts, their gentle swelling curves and their rosy peaks. Her puckered nipples are practically screaming to be suckled, but he swallows hard and bites his tongue. 

Then her breasts are briefly hidden from sight as her right hand rises to stroke her shortened left arm. It’s an unconscious habit she’s developed over the past few weeks, and tenderness tempers his lust. Her nerves are clear in the self-conscious curve of her body, and he clears his thickened throat. 

“My lady, you are so lovely it hurts,” he tells her truthfully. “It’s torture to simply look at you.” 

A smile lights her face, just as he hoped it would. “So come do more than look,” she retorts. She arches her spine slightly, lifting her petite breasts toward him, and he smiles at the confidence of her gesture. 

But he shakes his head. “Take the rest off first.” 

She releases her left arm and laughs. “You really are bossy today, you know that?” She kicks off her nugskin flats and unbuttons her trousers, then turns her back on him. 

He admires the gilded canvas of her naked back for a moment. Then her right thumb slides into her waistband, and her trousers start to come down. 

Her hand moves smoothly along the front of her waistband and back, easing her trousers down bit by bit, and Blackwall watches with rising desperation as she bends forward to slide her pants down to her calves. He drinks in the rounded curves of her ass and the lean lines of her legs as she kicks her trousers away. 

She shoots him a quick glance over her shoulder, and he nods furiously. She’s still bent at the waist, her smallclothes a teasing taunt that hide her glory, and he wants them gone. 

“Take it off,” he grunts. “All of it.” Arya is right; he is being bossy, and even he can hear the lustful hoarseness of his voice. 

She smirks, then straightens slowly and slides her thumb into the edge of her smalls. This time as she slides her garment down, her hips sway subtly from side to side. She arches slightly as she bends forward, exaggerating that sweet curve of her spine, and Blackwall groans out loud at the seductive sight. 

Her smallclothes pool around her ankles, and she steps away from them. She rises to her full height again, and Blackwall gazes ardently at the curves and lines of her body as she slowly turns to face him again. 

Her right hand is holding her left stump again, but this time her posture is coy instead of shy. Her hip is cocked to the side, her back still arched and her chin lifted high, and Blackwall shamelessly stares. Since their return from Halamshiral, he’s seen her naked when he’s helped her bathe and dress, and he’s watched her strip before bed at night, but this couldn’t be more different. 

This was more than a shedding of clothes. By stripping herself, Arya has stripped her inhibitions, a stripping of the shroud that obscured their intimacy for the past few months, and the joy pounding through his chest rivals the pounding of his cock. 

His greedy eyes fall on the patch of auburn curls between her legs. There’s an enticing shimmer of wetness there, and swallows the rush of eagerness that floods his tongue. “Let me taste you,” he begs. 

She grins as he steps toward her. “Not yet,” she says, then jerks her chin at him. “You get naked first.”

She bursts into laughter as he sweeps her into his arms, then plops her down on the bed. He stands back and roughly pulls off his boots, then tosses aside his gloves. “I may need your help, my lady,” he growls, then crawls onto the bed to kneel beside her. 

She pushes herself upright, and both her arms instinctively reach for his coat. She tuts with annoyance before her right fingers take hold of his buttons. “This is awkward with only one hand,” she complains, yet she’s undone two of his buttons already before the words have left her mouth.

He cups her chin gently until she meets his eyes. “Not awkward,” he says softly. “Just different. And you’re strangely talented at it.” He smirks ruefully down at his front; without even looking, her fingers have slid the strap of his belt from the buckle, and his belt is on the floor and his last buttons undone in the space of a few more seconds. 

He releases her chin and discards his coat, then pulls his shirt over his head. He shuffles close, then slides one hand along her left shoulder and down over her shortened arm in a tender caress. “This is not awkward,” he murmurs. “This is you. I love this arm exactly as it is.”

Her pupils are blown wide with want, but there’s a telltale sheen in her amethyst eyes, and Blackwall tenderly strokes her jawline. He kisses her gently, a careful press of lips as he eases her down onto her back, his right hand still stroking her residual left arm. 

He savours the plumpness of her lower lip and the warm floral scent of her throat. His mustache sweeps across the line of her left clavicle as he lifts her arms above her head. He lovingly twines his fingers with her right hand, but his palm caresses her left bicep with equal affection. 

He nuzzles her missing arm from the tip of her stump to edge of her armpit. Her skin is so fucking soft and smooth, her muscles softer than usual from lack of practice, but Blackwall knows they’ll soon grow strong again with the help of her new prosthetic. 

He lifts his face to meet her eyes. “This arm is perfect,” he tells her firmly. He waits until she nods agreement, then smiles and turns his attention back to her skin.

His mouth drifts from her arm to her chest, and he enjoys the rising of her ribcage as his lips float across her breast. “This breast is perfect too,” he says, then happily takes her nipple in his mouth. 

Arya moans, her fingers tightening against his hand as he suckles the tender rosy bud, and Blackwall has to force himself not to smile as he tastes her flesh. He loves the sounds of her pleasure, the heat of her skin against his tongue, and contentment only serves to heighten his desire.

“What about my other breast?” she asks. There’s a tight thread of need in her voice, and Blackwall finally grins at her lust-filled tone. 

He shoots her a playful look. “I’ll need to do a full inspection,” he says with mock seriousness, then nuzzles her neglected breast with his beard. 

She keens with want as he brushes his lips ever-so-lightly across her nipple. He gently flicks his tongue across the rosy bud until it’s puckered and hard. “Yes, this one is perfect too,” he says.

Arya’s only response is another moan and a pleading twist of her hips. Blackwall’s overeager cock jerks toward the enticing sheen between her legs, but he forces his attention back to her breast. Her breathing is hitched as he teases her nipple with his tongue, tiny gasps of air and heat that escape through her parted lips, and every sound she makes delights him more. 

He slides down between her legs to grasp her waist. With his lips he worships the narrow hollow beneath her sternum, and with his tongue he tastes the precious dip of her navel. 

Arya releases a wordless little mewl and spreads her knees wide. She lifts her hips toward his face and strokes the side of his head pleadingly, and he raises one roguish eyebrow. “Is there something else you want me to inspect, my lady?” 

“You terrible tease,” she whines. “You said you would taste me.” 

He chuckles, then nuzzles the curls between her legs until she sobs with desire. “Maybe I don’t need to taste you,” he growls. “I already know you have the finest pussy in all of Thedas.” 

She bursts out a desperate little laugh, then cries out as he buries his face between her legs. 

The salt of her musk washes over his tongue as he laps hungrily at her cleft. She tastes like oceans and sun-bronzed skin and sex, and he drinks her in with long and greedy strokes. Her scent crashes over him, crystal grace and salt and the unique brand of warmth that pulses between her legs, and Blackwall grumbles happily as he massages her swollen clit with the flat of his tongue. He’s savouring this feast like a starving man, but the roiling storm of his lust makes him think he’ll never get enough.

Arya gasps and whimpers beneath his mouth, and the song of her pleasure is something he sorely missed. Her thighs bracketing his face are firm and smooth, and he missed the position of privilege that this pose affords. Her pussy tastes like bliss and her scent is his own private perfume, and he zealously breathes her in as he savours her slippery folds. 

He swirls his tongue around her clit and kisses the sweetness of her cleft, and when Arya shivers apart against his mouth, he realizes that this is perfection. It’s everything he’s wanted for weeks, an exquisite storm of trust and tenderness, of carnal heat and closeness, and as her cries ring in his ears, his greatest truth rings in his mind: he loves her so fucking much, and he won’t let anything drive them apart again.

Her cries are sharp as she grinds herself against his lips, but then she jolts and grabs for the space where her left hand used to be. “Fuck,” she gasps, her fingers scrabbling as they land on her left bicep, and Blackwall pulls away to stare at her in alarm. 

“What’s wrong?” he demands. 

He lets out a breath of relief as he realizes she’s smiling. Then she bursts into a ringing, breathless laugh. “I feel it in my arm,” she finally gasps. “It… when I came, I felt it in my arm.” 

His eyes widen in shock as she falls back on the pillow, her fingers still clutching her arm as she laughs. He sits back on his knees and distractedly wipes his face on his hand. “You felt it in your arm?” he asks. “Is that…?”

He wants to ask if it’s normal, but it’s a stupid question; she can’t be expected to know the answer. This is new to them both, after all. 

He leans forward over her supine form and gently strokes her face, but she doesn’t look like she’s in pain. “Are you all right?” he asks.

She nods, her breaths still long and heavy from her climax. “Yes,” she says. “It’s okay. Weird, but okay.” Then she suddenly shoves his chest. 

He’s caught by surprise, and he falls back as she straddles him in one smooth motion. Her left arm rests on his shoulder for support as her remaining hand pulls at the laces of his trousers. “Come on, get these off,” she pants.

“Yes, my lady,” he blurts. As soon as his laces are untied, he slides his trousers off and kicks them to the floor. 

Arya straddles his lap again. Her right hand sinks into his hair, and he can imagine the ghost of her left hand stroking his face. 

She gravely meets his eyes, her expression a mixture of seriousness and lust. “Fuck me,” she pleads. “Fill me up. I need you, Blackwall.”

His chest is suddenly full, his throat throbbing with unbearable love as he meets her gaze. His name on her lips is sacred, this name that only Arya uses anymore, and hearing it in her needy voice is the most reverent kind of prayer.

She shifts on his lap, sliding her slickness along his length, and their matching moans of longing meld in the air like morning mist. Pleasure and anticipation and need are spiralling high, coalescing in his core as she rocks her heat against him, and he can’t bear the distance anymore. 

Blackwall lifts her hips, then slides himself inside of her in a smooth slow thrust. 

Her mouth presses against his ear, pouring her blissful gasp straight into his mind, and he releases a heady groan as the warmth of her pussy envelops him. This moment is everything he dreamed of: the comfort of her heated skin beneath his warrior’s hands, the grounding weight of her lithe body across his lap, her silken heat squeezing him tight.

Her fingers clutch his hair, and her left arm presses against his neck in an embrace. “Blackwall,” she breathes, “I love you. I love you so much. Don’t you ever, _ever_ doubt it.”

Her voice holds a broken note, a tremble of emotion laced with lust, and he inhales sharply to quell the burning in his eyes. “I love _you_ ,” he insists, his voice rough and fierce, and he flexes his hips into the cradle of her body.

She gasps and arches into him, pressing down to meet his careful thrust. Her tongue drags across the edge of his ear as they move together in a smooth and steady rhythm. The swell of her breasts brush his beard, and her fingers are clenched at the back of his scalp. The seductive movement of her hips is rivalled only by the tempting smoothness of their curves, and her smooth slickness pulls insistently at his pleasure. The love they’re making is slower and sweeter than their usual ferocious fuck; this is a steady roll-and-grind that ebbs and flows like ocean waves, and Blackwall savours every heated inch of her. 

He leans back slightly and slides his hand between their bodies. “I want you to come again,” he whispers, and he brushes his knuckle against her clit.

She shudders and whines, spreading her knees wider to grant him access, and their slow and careful grind becomes slower and more sinuous still as he caresses the taut little bud between her legs. Her breathing grows deep and tremulous, and he watches with helpless adoration as her lovely face creases with pleasure, eyes shut tight, cheeks flushed and her lower lip between her teeth- 

She gasps and grabs her left arm again. “Blackwall,” she cries, “I’m going to... I’m-” 

She breaks off with a guttural cry of rapture, and Blackwall admires the taut tension of her body as she arches with bliss. She lifts her hips with a gasp, then slams down hard onto his cock, and he groans with delight at the intensity of the thrust. 

She rises and falls against his hips again, a rapid collision of skin and slickness, and Blackwall gasps as she takes control with a fast and fierce rhythm. Her hips roll hard against him, her left upper arm still clutched in her right hand. In all the unfettered fury of their fucking, she tilts to the left. Her arm stretches out to catch her, but there’s no hand to stop her fall. 

Her eyes widen in alarm, but Blackwall grabs her left upper arm before she can lose her balance entirely. “I’ve got you,” he says.

Her wide amethyst eyes fly to his face, and he hopes and prays that she knows he means it in more ways than one. Arya Lavellan can stand on her own two feet; she’s strong and capable and fierce, and she’s more than able to adapt to the lack of her left arm. But Blackwall will always be there, a gentle voice in her ear when she feels alone and a firm hand on her shoulder when she starts to fall, just as she’s always been for him. 

She exhales tremulously, then suddenly her fingers are in his hair again as she takes his mouth in a deep and passionate kiss. Her tongue slides into his mouth, and he gasps against her lips as she grinds herself against him. 

She doesn’t break the kiss as she rides him, her breasts crushed to his chest and her arms tight around his neck. Her clutches her just as closely, nipping her lips and tangling their tongues as her tight wet heat coaxes the pleasure coiling in his core. 

She finally breaks from his kiss with a gasp, but her cheek stays pressed to his as she fucks him hard and sweet. When his climax finally takes him, it’s a shattering of ecstasy, like bolts of bliss fleeing through his bloodstream to strike at the tips of his toes and the back of his throat, and Arya’s tender kiss is the crowning glory of his pleasure. 

He gasps fitfully as Arya gently nibbles his earlobe. His fingers feel boneless, wrung raw with the strength of his rapture, but he slides them into her damp short hair to kiss her before falling back onto the bed. 

Arya slides off of his lap, then stretches out beside him. She throws her leg across his body, and her right arm curls across his chest. Her fingers rise to stroke his beard in a light and gentle scratch. She’s sprawled across him with all the uninhibited affection that he missed so much, and he’s so unbelievably fucking relieved. 

Blackwall squeezes his eyes shut, but this time he can’t hold back the tears. They wend their way from the corners of his eyes to soak into his temples, and he forces himself to breathe normally to try and hide them.

But Arya pushes herself up on the stump of her arm, and he watches with a hint of embarrassment as her eyebrows lift with concern. “Blackwall? What’s wrong?” she whispers. 

Her fingers wipe the moisture from his face, and he shakes his head. “Nothing, love,” he says. “Nothing at all.” 

His tone is gruff, but his words are genuine, and he sees from the softness of Arya’s smile that she understands. Her loving gaze traces his face as her thumb traces his lip, and he catches her hand in his. 

He brushes his thumb across her knuckles, then kisses the wedding ring on her finger. This golden ring is a symbol of love, a glittering gift to decorate her slender archer’s hand, but it’s much more than that.

It’s a reminder of choices made, and a sign of devotion to those choices. It’s a promise of commitment, a promise he’ll honour every day of his life.

He gazes up at his fierce Dalish wife, with her short temper and her short russet hair and her shortened left arm. She’s brusque and bolshy and sharp, loyal and determined and loving. He drinks in the naked affection in her beautiful face, and conviction burns hot in his heart. Life with the Inquisitor will never be easy, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

Loving Arya Lavellan is the best choice Blackwall has ever made. And in the warmth of her smile and the tender touch of her fingers in his beard, he can tell that she feels the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who read along: thank you for being here! I hope you enjoyed it! xo
> 
> My resources when writing this fic are as follows:  
> \- [This incredible autobiographical piece](http://theweek.com/articles/445460/new-life-arm) written by Miles O'Brien, whose arm was amputated.  
> \- [This Youtube video about post-amputation massage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqmKhuT-mWw) by an occupational therapist who also has a leg amputation.  
> \- [This scientific review article](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3198614/) about the mechanisms and treatments for phantom limb pain.  
> \- [Another more patient-friendly resource](https://www.amputee-coalition.org/inmotion/jul_aug_13/phantom-pain.pdf) about phantom limb pain treatment.  
> \- [This link to an archery prosthetic](https://www.trsprosthetics.com/product/archerybowhunting/) that inspired the prosthetic used by Arya in this fic. 
> 
> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if anyone would like to come and squawk about Blackwall with me :3


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